Champagne
by Gabriezzu
Summary: After the masquerade, Christine has to take matters into her own hands: she can no longer wait for her Angel of Music to make the first move. After all, she could blame it all to the champagne in the morning... Leroux-based. Dub-con.


**Warning:** Dub-con! If you do not like that, please do not read! It is rated M for a reason!

 **-0-**

Saying that Erik was ugly would be the understatement of the world.

He was, in fact, more alike to a creature born from the imagination of a disturbed mind than to a living man, and every movement he made, every step he took proved it further. The dangerously tall and scrawny body from which his dark clothes hung; the horrible eyes that seemed inexistent until they glowed in the dark with that predatory, feline sharpness that told nothing but tales of death; the ghastly odor of decadence; the yellowish, thin, sickening skin that clung to his skull; the lipless mouth with the crooked teeth; the unnaturally long fingers that could easily surround her whole neck and _squeeze_ until breath could no longer pass to her lungs. His whole being carried the air of danger, of death; it warned whoever came close to turn back and never look again. Christine herself had lived and witnessed the dangers that the man could truly present; had seen his madness spill before her and taint her with the blood of the wounds he had created with her own hands.

And yet, she craved his touch as though her life depended on it.

Perhaps it was the solitude, or the darkness, or the non-stopping, maddening, and soul-reaching music that had penetrated her mind every moment, but in the two weeks Christine had spent in Erik's house, he was all she could think about. At first, it was out of fear, out of pure disgust and fright. But it slowly turned to some sort of morbid fascination, and she became addicted to him. It excited her almost as much as it terrified it.

She thought of his music, of his art, of his voice, of his cooking, of his house, of his cleaning, of his manners. She thought of his ugliness, and the way her fingers ached to touch it again. Not to leave more scars into an already decadent and marred flesh like he had forced her to do before but in a more carnal, desperate and desirous way. In a way that no young lady should ever know about.

But the thing was that Christine _did_ know. She had spent years in the world of the arts; had seen rich people come and go, taking expensive little trinkets and poor performers behind closed doors, doing unnamable, sinful things that later spilled out of the little performer's giggling mouth among flushed faces. She might have never participated in such heated conversations, but she did listen, saving all the juicy details and explicit descriptions in the back of her mind, only to be taken out again in the loneliness of her bedroom at night.

Such improper thoughts were supposed to be reserved for her husband, and her husband alone. She did not consider Erik as an option for such role –she simply could _not._ No respectable young lady would…-, despite his multiple hints that he would gladly fill that position. Yet, he was able to unearth such damnable desires from within her, and for the life of her, she couldn't understand _why_ or _how_. Not even Raoul de Chagny, with his broad shoulders, cherubic face, and strong arms that denoted the years of hard work, was able to make her body _ache_ as Erik did.

Yet, Erik did nothing about it. Not even a single touch, a single caress, a single accidental brush!

Two weeks she had lived under the same roof as he did, and in none of those days, her doors were ever locked. They were always open, inviting him to enter. She had even left the door of her bathroom open while she bathed! Her door was always ajar as she dressed. But he did not even get close. She always kept an eye on the fragment of space open, hoping to see him there with his terrible eyes glued to her slender figure, but he never was.

Christine _knew_ he wanted her. He was a man, and he was in love with her; he had said so himself. Men always wanted the woman they loved. It was frustrating beyond belief to know both of them ached for each other, even if it was never said out loud, and that neither of them did a single thing about it. The thought of his modesty, respect, and chivalry, which at the beginning of her stay with him had brought comfort and peace of mind to her, now only made her tremble in desperate and frustrated need.

It did not matter how revealing her cleavage was, or how translucent her nightgowns were, Erik never seemed to understand her intentions.

But tonight was going to be different. She had had enough of pretending to be the innocent little lady who knew nothing of the world –as if performers as herself were seen as pure anywhere but in Erik's mind-, and was now going to take matters into her hands. No more waiting for her precious Angel.

As Erik's fingers guided her by the waist with a feather-light touch through the passages, she was sure this would be the night. Tonight, the Red Death would bend at her mercy. Funny how just a few hours before she had told Raoul that he would one day regret his hard words and false accusation of her lack of innocence, and she was now about to do exactly what he accused her of.

"Erik," she said in the gentle, sweet tone that she knew he liked the best as soon as they crossed the entrance of his house, "could you wait for me in the music room? I would love for us to sing together right now. Just allow me to get more comfortable."

Before Erik could answer, Christine slipped away to her bedroom. She quickly took the domino costume off and put on a nightgown: white lace, pale pink ribbons, low cut, and short hem. It was definitely more revealing than anything she had ever worn before. She took a glance at her reflection on the mirror and quickly inspected her makeup and hair, letting the latter fall down her shoulders and back. She had no need to pinch her own cheeks, for they colored themselves in red at the sight of the perfectly visible nipples and womanly curves through the cloth. It was improper, unheard of, and completely against the morale she so proudly defended. And yet she was going to do it nonetheless. Right now, she could blame the wine and the champagne she had drank at the masquerade, and that brought certain peace of mind to her, but the presence of that nightgown, bought specifically for that occasion in mind, was the irrefutable proof that the alcohol in her blood had nothing to do with anything she was about to do. She couldn't wait to take it off.

Christine entered the music room with a boost of confidence and security. Erik sat at the piano, shifting around some music sheets and cleaning the space. Just as she had hoped, his extravagant, if not slightly ridiculous, Death Red costume was still on place, except for the voluptuous hat, which laid forgotten on the couch behind him.

Erik, as if a sixth sense alerted him of every one of her moves, raised his head to look at her, and she was able to see in his hideous face –that same face everyone who currently danced and laughed above them had seen and delighted at, thinking it to be nothing but a silly mask. _Oh, if only_ … _how easier everything would be if it were_!- the exact moment in which his sunken eyes took in her form and the words liquefied in his mind. He stared at her unashamedly, perhaps too far gone to even notice how much his intense gaze devoured her; how much it lingered on areas of her anatomy that he had done inhumane efforts before to not even think about. She smiled, feeling a flame of desire ignite inside of her.

Christine allowed him just a moment longer before slowly approaching his side, moving her hips in a slow, deliberate motion that she knew no man could resist. If his eyes followed the sensual swing of her hips, she couldn't know: they were too deep in their sockets to be visible, except when they glowed in the dark. Currently, too many gaslights illuminated the room for such a vision of golden, and his stare was nothing but two bottomless, hollow pools of black, and yet she could feel their anxious, starved caress all over her.

She sat beside him on the piano bench, closer than she had ever dared before, with her knee touching his long, tense thigh. The distinct smell of him, of death, of _something_ hit her senses in an overwhelming wave that made her shudder in anticipation.

"Are you ready to sing, Erik?" she asked in a low tone, and only then did he seem to wake up from his trance. An immediate wave of red flooded his face as he looked away from her, down to the tiles in front of him. The pink tone on his sunken cheeks was almost unsettling, for he looked so dead that such a _living_ reaction seemed out of place. She loved it nonetheless, just like she loved many other details and quirks of him, but the word " _love"_ was forcibly erased from her mind as soon as it entered it, as always.

"Ye-Yes, I… uh, ah…" he babbled senselessly, his gloved fingers clenching and unclenching over his thighs, carefully avoiding to even brush her knee. She had never seen him stutter, and a devilish smile almost appeared on her lips: she immediately knew her plan would be a success. "Yes, let's sing."

He twisted slightly away from her view, closing his legs. Another thing he never did: he always stared at her directly, even long after it was acceptable and decent. She frowned, but when she saw the prominent bulge on his pants and the desperation with which he tried to hide it with the cape of the costume without her noticing, the annoyance dissolved into giggles. She moved closer on the bench while her knees once again pressed to his thigh. She shamelessly moved her hands and placed them over his on their place on his knees. She heard his breath getting stuck on his chest before moving his limp, unmoving hands, as if they were the hands of a marionette and not of a living man, to rest against the tiles.

"You have to put your hands on the tiles to play the piano, my friend," she said, a playful smile gracing her lips.

"I, ah, yes," he murmured, still not looking at her.

"Then play," she murmured in reply. She was so close to him that her breath tickled his sensitive skin, sending shivers down his back.

He did not ask what she wanted to sing. He had no voice, no mind for that. His fingers moved on their own, his eyes too busy trying not to look at the close proximity of her full, tempting cleavage that the miserable cloth did nothing to hide; at the throbbing vein at the side of her exposed neck; at how her hand still held his arm and her slender fingers mimicked his own movements over his bicep. He tried not to feel; to ignore the soft heat that irradiated from her, the slight pressure of her knee against his leg, the caress of her golden curls against his neck when her precious head slowly rested against his bony shoulder.

Erik hardly heard the sound of the melody: it was barely a distant noise in the background. All he could hear was his own wild heart, beating against his narrow chest as if it wanted to shatter his bones. His hands sweated under the leather gloves.

Christine did not know the song, but she did not need to: she felt its silent lyrics, its silent torture and beg for freedom. She felt, in its high and low notes, Erik's struggle for control, for moderation, for property. But well, that would simply not do.

Her hand left his arm, and slowly, like the serpent tempting Eve to bite from the forbidden fruit, crept to Erik's knee. He said nothing, but the sudden note, that seemed to express his surprise – _distress_?- at her sudden movement told her all she needed to know.

With her eyes still fixed in those terrible, scrawny hands that danced in a silent beg over the tiles, her own fingers danced as well; her fingernails scratching lightly their path over his thigh as they moved closer, closer, _closer_ to where she ached to touch him and he ached to be touched. She could already feel herself wet with the mere thought.

"Chris- Christine," Erik whispered in a forced, husky murmur. Oh, his voice! That golden voice could bring any woman to her knees in a moment, and now, hearing it filled and overwhelmed in lust made her eyes close in a barely-stopped moan.

"Shh, Erik," she reprimanded, her eyes still close and her hand, though no longer moving up his leg, still drawing circles and patterns over the fabric of his trousers in his inner thigh. "I cannot listen to the music."

"But… but, Christi-"

" _The music, Erik_."

Erik said no more, too overwhelmed with the sensation of her perfect fingers caressing each time closer and closer to his aching manhood. One of her fingers _finally_ touched him, barely a simple brush, but all he could do to not moan in desperation was to bite his own tongue. This was wrong. She surely couldn't know what she was doing to him. She surely had drank too much. He clenched his thighs tighter.

She did not like that.

"Would you not agree that this piece requires the use of the pedals, Erik?"

"Christine…" he murmured, his eyelids dropping as the palm of her hand once again stroked his member, rubbing it once in a circular motion through the restricting fabric of his trousers, before her hand returned to her previous task of drawing patterns on his thigh. His fingers twitched over the piano, and he missed the next note.

"Music, Erik." Another brush of her palm, and he unclenched his thighs. His feet blindly moved to the pedals, but they did not press them. He couldn't have done it, even if he had truly cared to do so.

All pretense forgotten, Christine slipped out of the bench and stood behind Erik; her body pressed against his back. Her hands left his trousers to start unbuttoning his beautiful but incredibly restricting costume, leaving the top open hanging from his shoulders. She uncovered his yellowish, skinny neck; kissing right where his jaw and neck met, while her nails gently dragged down all across his chest. She felt her fingers dip into his disgustingly prominent ribs and scars, and lower into his abdomen that sunk even more at her touch, as his breath came in quick and heavy pants; his head rolling back, pillowed against her full breasts. His fingers had long forgotten how to play, and only played a few notes each time she whispered a command for more on his ear. This time he couldn't avoid the moan.

Christine moved from behind him and placed herself between his legs. She could see the sweat sliding down his forehead, his nasty skin painted in red, his ribs moving with each hard breath he took, his eyes barely open through the dense fog of desire.

She couldn't stop herself.

She knelt down before him, with his knees at her sides, and took him by the shoulder, making him bend down to kiss her. She groaned in the back of her throat at the sensation of his bare gums and teeth, permanently exposed by the lack of half of his upper lip, against her lips. He visibly tensed at the contact, and took him a long moment before starting to respond softly, barely moving in his inexperience against the harsh and passionate ferocity of her kiss. She passed her tongue over his misshapen lips, and lightly nibbled on his lower lip. As he gasped in surprise, her tongue entered his mouth.

She undid the front of her nightgown, and took his static hands to her breasts, gasping in frustration at the feeling of the vulgar leather and not the frozen, clammy touch of his unbelievably long hands directly touching her skin. Gently, tentatively, as if _still_ believing he would be rejected should he actually took some initiative, he passed his thumb over her nipple. She groaned in delight, and arched her back so he would take her more fully. His hands were so _large,_ but so _useless_ in their hesitancy!

She broke away the kiss, and lost no time before starting to devour his neck, slick with the sweat that slid down its sides. Her hand held him still by the back of his neck; her fingers gently massaging each little bone of his spine. The other more mischievous hand ran down his chest, circling his nipple, much like he had done with hers, and torn away a moan. If she had had more time, she would have stayed a longer time playing with that particular area, knowing now that it was the key for such lovely sounds from his terrible mouth, but in truth, right now her mind was focused in touching somewhere else. Perhaps he just needed a little more _motivation_ to start participating a bit more.

Her fingers quickly opened the buttons of his pants, and before he could even react, she had freed his manhood completely from its oppressing restrictions. He sighed in what she could assume was relief.

He was _large._ That was the first thing that came to her mind as she stared at him unashamedly; her eyes running up and down his length, taking in every vein, every detail of his manhood. She knew how a man should look, at least, in theory. She had heard the very explicit descriptions of her fellow chorus members, but she had never actually _seen_ a man like that. And she was actually surprised that the second thing that came to her mind was that she wanted to taste it. It was the undeniable proof that, regardless what everyone above said, he was still a living man like any other.

She gave no consideration to the sudden sting of guilt that came to her. Where was her modesty, her shame? Where was the morality she so proudly defended? Where was the innocence that everyone claimed to see in her eyes? She was behaving like a slut, and she knew. No respectable man would ever be with a woman like her. No respectable woman should perform acts like this to a man to who she was not married, and even then, this was still improper. Why did it have to be Erik? Why could it not be any other man? Why _him?_ This was Erik! She should not, she _could not,_ do this for him, _to_ him!

"Chris… ah… Christine…"

She kissed the tip of his manhood before he could say anything else and any kind of doubt in her could be fed. Erik moaned, and the sound was so _deliriously beautiful_ that she could not avoid doing it again, this time lingering longer, moving her lips slowly and deliberately against him.

"Ah! _Christine!"_

 _Oh, Lord, the way he said her name!_ If there was any sound more _perfect_ in this or the next life, she would not believe it.

Growing more confident at such encouraging response to her ministrations, Christine gave a light lick to his sensitive tip, and saw how his head rolled back and his fists tightened over the bench at each side of him. She loved the taste; the soft yet firm texture, and to imagine it inside of her, on that intimate and still untouched part of her, made her own hands unable to stop themselves from searching that place hidden between her thighs. She released a moan as her own fingers slipped between her slick folds, picturing _his_ hands, _his_ long fingers touching her there, as she had made so many times in the solitude of her bed before. It was a recurring fantasy that always appeared in her mind in the most intimate of moments, and that could take her to the climax within moments.

Her tongue darted out, and passed from the very bottom to the tip of his length, before finally taking it in. It was a marvelous, intoxicating sensation, and her tongue kept teasing and playing around him inside her mouth. She could feel him _throbbing_ inside. Erik could not even say her name between gasps and moans.

Her free hand, the one that was not currently making her dizzy with pleasure and was soaked in her own juices, gently cupped his sack, massaging it gently before taking his hand in hers and guiding it to her head. She tangled his skeletal fingers on her hair, desperate for a reaction; a silent beg for him to _do something!_

"Chris-tine, I… _Erik will…!_ "

At once, she took all that she could of him in, pushing away the impulse to gag when she felt his length going down her throat. Her head moved on her own accord, up and down, taking him in and out, sucking and licking with blind desperation. Her tongue twisted one last time, and before he could even warn her, he came.

Her eyes opened at the unexpected, sudden explosion inside her mouth, and immediately released him, her own hand moving away from her center in her surprise. It took her a moment, in which she stared at him pant and moan wide eyed, to realize that the hot substance that slowly descended down her chin and throat was his seed. It had a strange, strong taste that though not as good as _him_ , was not as disgusting as she had heard. She cleaned her chin before he opened his eyes again.

The hand that had been resting lifelessly on her hair had fisted tightly while he had climaxed, but as soon as his eyes opened it completely released her, and cowered away from her. The trembling, skeletal hand offered her a handkerchief found in the depths of his pocket a moment later. He could barely keep his eyes open as he saw her accept the cloth and clean herself, fascinated at the sight.

"What… What did you…?" Erik tried to ask between hard breathings as soon as his mind seemed to start functioning again.

"Shhh, Erik," Christine once again quieted him, giving a gentle squeeze to his bony knee: she did not want to speak or listen to reason right now. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would be stronger to face what she had just done, but right now, it did not matter. "Just _feel,_ Erik."

And to her surprise, instead of any protestation or further attempt at speaking, he cried. Silent tears slid down his decayed face, and a sudden wave of suffocating, overwhelming guilt hit her at once: what if he had not… wanted it? What if he had not enjoyed it at all, like she had? What if she had… _forced him?_

Her eyes widened in horror, but it disappeared as soon as she saw that terrible, crooked smile appear on his decayed face as his hands tried to quickly and uselessly erase the tears from his face.

"Thank you, Christine, thank you" he said, with his face burrowed in his hands. She hardly heard his muffled words. "I love you, I love you, I love you so much…"

Christine was speechless, staring in disbelief still seated on the floor before him and between his legs. From all the scenarios that had appeared on her mind of how this night could end, him _thanking her_ while _crying_ _from happiness_ was definitely not one of them. A knot of shame formed in her throat.

' _I love you'_

With his horrible, dead face shining in such unrepressed bliss and satisfaction, and his sunken eyes glistering in tears of joy –that at this distance she could finally see plainly, for the first time without the need of shadows, that his eyes were in fact a curious tone of gold-, she could almost return those words.

 _Almost_.

"You… You're welcome, Erik."

In the morning, she would blame it all on the champagne.

 **-0-**

 **Author's Note:**

I know, I know, y'all don't even have to tell me: they are both incredibly out of character. I know, and I'm sorry, but I'm not sorry. I finished writing this like five days ago but I didn't have a title sooo…:(

Anyway, I know poor Erik would have _died_ merely by seeing her so unclothed, and Christine would have rather turned the grasshopper than initiating… any of this. But hey, this is what Fanfics are for, don't you think:)?

Hope you liked it, nonetheless! Like and review3


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